


Regrets

by daymarket



Series: LAS Entries [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:43:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daymarket/pseuds/daymarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The box brings up unpleasant memories, and Neal's always been good at running away.</p><p>Minific written for round ten of <a href="http://whitecollarlas.livejournal.com">White Collar Last Author Standing</a> competition over on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regrets

**Author's Note:**

> I am _finally_ getting around to posting these. Yay?

When the box arrives at the office for Neal, Peter doesn’t think much of it at first. It’s fairly large and hefty, and there’s a label on the side. Peter catches a glimpse of the FBI logo before Neal’s face suddenly changes—quick, almost imperceptible. It’s gone in a flash, the con smile firmly back on, but Peter’s on sudden alert.  
  
He’s fairly certain that he’s not going to like whatever’s in the box, and his sense of suspicion wars with his respect for Neal’s privacy. He’s well aware that there’s a tentative line the two of them tread, but he wonders if this is one of the moments he should break it. As Neal gets out of the car that night, box firmly in hand, Peter says casually, “You want to come to our place tonight?”  
  
“I’m good,” Neal tells him, and that right there is enough to set off ten alarm bells. “Tell El thanks for me. Quiet night in, I promise.”  
  
Right.  
  
Neal’s tracker shows him firmly situated at June’s, but around ten, Peter finally snaps. “I’m going to drive to Neal’s real quick, hon,” he says to El as she’s brushing her teeth.  
  
“Now?” she asks around a mouthful of foam. “It’s kind of late, honey.”  
  
Peter shakes his head. “Bad feelings. I’ll be back by midnight or I’ll call, promise.” He kisses her on the cheek.  
  
“Ah, the Peter Burke gut instinct,” El says, spitting and wiping her mouth. “Neal okay?”  
  
Peter grimaces. “I hope so,” he says, grabbing his keys.  
  
((()))  
  
Neal doesn’t look surprised to see him when he opens the door, just faintly annoyed. “Peter,” he sighs, and Peter notes a faint slur to his words. “Knew you couldn’t stay away.”  
  
“You’re drinking?” Peter asks pointedly. “You’ve got work tomorrow.”  
  
Neal snorts. “I’ll be fine,” he says, turning away from the door. “Come on in,” he says, sounding tired. “It’s not like I can stop you.”  
  
Peter closes the door and walks into the room. The box is perched on the table, its flaps open and contents strewn across. Peter approaches slowly, cataloging the contents. Women’s clothing, neatly folded. A set of old-timey angel figurines. A collection of sci-fi paperbacks. A quilt, edges ragged with age and use. And more. “What are these?” Peter asks, noting also the two empty bottles of wine on the table.  
  
Neal doesn’t answer for a moment. “My mom’s stuff,” he says, picking out the words delicately. “She’s dead.”  
  
The words linger in the air starkly. “Oh,” Peter says. “I’m—”  
  
“Don’t say it,” Neal interrupts. “She wasn’t really there in the end, anyway. Maybe it’s kinder for all involved.” He snorts and drinks again from his glass, deeply. “Ellen was more of a mother than she was.”  
  
“Do you know how…?”  
  
“Cancer, apparently,” Neal says. “Which is funny, because she was—” He stops, cutting himself off abruptly. “I haven’t seen her for a while,” he says finally. “I didn’t know.”  
  
“Since you left home?” Peter asks. Neal gives him a tiny shrug, which is all the answer he needs to give.  
  
“I’m fine, by the way,” Neal says after a moment goes by. “This isn’t Kate or Ellen. I barely knew her.”  
  
“She was your mother,” Peter says.  
  
“She wasn’t there,” Neal says, and the bitterness in his voice seems to startle him. He shakes his head, and Peter can visibly see him fumbling to regain the classic Caffrey mask. “Ellen was a lot more important to me,” Neal says finally. He gives Peter a tired smile. “So you don’t need to worry. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”  
  
He’s offering an out should Peter want to take it. And Peter’s bad at this, he knows. El would be better at this; hell, Diana would outclass him in the comforting aspect. But seeing Neal before him—quiet, yearning, broken—tells Peter that hiding isn’t an option.  
  
Cowboy up, Burke.  
  
He reaches a hand out to grip Neal’s shoulder. Neal tenses under his touch, but he doesn’t move away. “When’s the funeral?” Peter asks quietly.  
  
“I’m not going,” Neal says sharply.  
  
“You should,” Peter says.  
  
“Why do you care?” Neal mutters.  
  
Peter tightens his grip. “Because you do,” he says. “Neal, you can lie to everyone, but you can’t lie to yourself. You want to go back.”  
  
“Don’t tell me what I want,” Neal says, but it’s more of a reflexive retort than anything else. “She didn’t care.”  
  
Peter notes the stitches of the quilt on the table, the worn patches and corners. “Did she make this for you?” he asks gently, running a hand across it. “This was your baby blanket, wasn’t it?”  
  
Neal turns his head to look at it for a long moment, and his hand rubs across it, soft, reverent. “It’s old,” he says quietly, almost sullenly.  
  
But he doesn’t deny it.  
  
“I’ll take you to the funeral if you want,” Peter says. The option lingers in the air, and Neal turns his face away. “If you want to say goodbye.”  
  
“Been there, done that,” Neal murmurs. “I don’t think she noticed.”  
  
“Do you want to go?” Peter asks again.  
  
Neal looks at him for a long moment before tilting his head back, letting out a long sigh. Peter’s struck by how young he looks, how undone. “Next Friday,” he says finally. “It’s in New Jersey.”  
  
Peter nods. “We’ll be there,” he says.


End file.
